


You say you want a revolution (we'd all love to save the world)

by aworldinside



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Gen, PARTIZAN Spoilers, Season: PARTIZAN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28128723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aworldinside/pseuds/aworldinside
Summary: “You really led a revolution?”“Yeah. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”He’d been a monk, a prisoner, a revolutionary (twice), but what was he now?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	You say you want a revolution (we'd all love to save the world)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetry/gifts).



> Spoilers are present up to and including PARTIZAN 36: The Witch in Glass Part 2. 
> 
> Thank you to: Austin Walker for documenting his worldbuilding on the Patreon, and the very wonderful people who do Transcripts at the Table.
> 
> And thanks to my wonderful betas.

He heard steps in the hall outside his room, which was really just a slightly nicer cell, and looked up from the book he had been reading out of boredom. Cynosure Kesh had no talent for verse. 

It was one of the regular guards. He’d taken to calling him Reggie in his head; he looked like a Reggie. 

“They want to see you.” 

He was escorted through the now very familiar halls of the prison towards the warden’s office. But once he got there, it was not the Warden who was meeting him but Clementine Kesh. (He’d managed to get brief snippets of news coverage while being in here, and she had the same angular face he remembered from when she was a child). She looked uncomfortable in her almost completely white outfit which contrasted against the dark colours of the surprisingly cosy warden’s office.

She looked him dead in the eye, holding her head up high, even as he stood over a foot taller than her. “Sovereign Immunity, we have a job for you.” 

No greeting. No preamble. She’d grown to look quite a lot like Crysanth and had that same authoritarian air, but where Crysanth’s was natural and earned, he didn’t sense the same thing from her daughter. 

“I’m listening.”

“Yes, well, I wasn’t really offering you a choice.” 

He accepted. Not that he had, as Clementine said, much of a choice. A special tactical unit. He could see Crysanth’s fingerprints all over it, and after such a long time in prison he didn't know if he had it in him to go toe to toe with her. But he was willing to give it a shot. 

He was so tired of being in here. 

\--

His parents were actually farmers. (The irony). 

He grew up on a small planet in Nideo space. His parents farmed a small plot of land and were part of a supportive community of people who looked out for each other. It had been a happy childhood, for the most part. He thought he would probably grow up to be a farmer too. 

He was bigger than a lot of the other kids, but also thoughtful, curious and prepared to step in where he saw someone getting pushed around. He didn’t like bullies. 

A friend of his parents convinced them that sending him into the care of the Shepherd's Crook was the best choice. He showed promise. And soon afterwards he was assessed by a local representative and sent off-planet to study.

He remembered the day he left. It had been a cold day with a brisk wind, and his mother hugged him and pulled his brand new cloak tighter around him and gave him a kiss on his cheek. 

He got letters when his family could get them through, and the Crook had resources, but he never saw his parents again. He was the Crook’s from then on. 

\--

“ We are to be deployed to the city of Obelle. You may have heard that following a skirmish with the Apostolosians, the Divine Past came to ground among fighting ...”

He’d kept somewhat up to date on current affairs while he was in prison - a luxury that was afforded him due to his unusual status - but the first Rapid Evening briefing was still a rush of information. A buzz. Obelle. The body of the Divine Past. 

He was unsure about his “team-mates” Leap, Rooke and Ver’million but they had at least seemed capable when they were training. He hadn’t seen as much of Ver’million and Leap but he had seen Rooke around the prison and he thought he saw an opportunity there. He reminded him of someone. 

“No, I think they’d deploy someone to keep an eye on us who knows how to use a gun.” Ver’million sounded decidedly unimpressed by Clem.

However watching Clem give them the presentation, he saw the ambition, the desire to impress playing underneath. He could see ambition pouring off people. He had spent all his professional life learning about, watching and working for ambitious people. And Clementine Kesh had it in waves. He could use that. He was getting out of prison eventually, of that he was sure. 

\--

He’d gotten used to monastery life relatively quickly. There was a rhythm to it that he enjoyed. An early start, weapon training, followed by lessons, lunch, more lessons, then an outdoor activity or guest speaker of some sort and then dinner. They were granted some free time but there were also often other chores to be done, or things planned for their further edification. 

He’d always been attentive in his lessons. They’d learned the complicated politics of the Principality, the history of the sector and the nearby Golden Branch, and of course, about religion and the prophecies and acts of Logos Kantel. It was still a monastic order, after all, albeit a slightly unorthodox one, and people started asking questions about monks with no religious understanding. 

And of course he’d learned to fight. To carry himself with purpose. To blend in. To be a Sovereign Immunity - to whomever he was assigned.

His favourite teacher had been an old monk called Otto who had been teaching for years and years. He was quieter than most, but he could put you down with a staff and a sharp remark as fast as anyone. Nearing the end of his training he pulled him aside in a quiet corner of the garden. 

“Lawrence, just remember one thing for me, will you?”

“Of course, Master.”

“You’re there to advise first, of course, and represent the high standards of the Crook, but try and see opportunities to help others if you can. Not everyone wields their power in the same way.”

Those words had stuck with him. 

He was called away to his first assignment soon after. And then eventually to the court of Crysanth Kesh in Cruciat. 

\--

“You really led a revolution?” The disbelief was obvious in Leap’s voice. 

They were travelling somewhere and he, Leap and Millie were sitting together in the back of the transport. Clem didn’t sit with The Help if she could possibly help it. Even if they had saved her life. 

Millie was cleaning her sniper rifle, but he noticed her eyes ticked up towards him in interest as Leap asked his question. 

“Yeah. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” 

\--

He’d worked for Crysanth for years, and she was a demanding employer, but she had at least some begrudging respect for his advice and skill set. (She hadn’t fired him yet). They always did correspondence in the mornings, and there was nothing different on that particular day. 

It hadn’t started out as a revolution. It started as an entreaty to look into the plight of some farmers. Crysanth was dismissive, of course. 

“The Kesh taxation regime is the fairest in the Principality, and we all pay what we owe. I don’t know what these farmers are complaining about. Have we heard anything about ...”

But he couldn’t get it out of his head, so he made some enquiries. No one asked any questions, because he was Crysanth’s Sovereign Immunity, so obviously it must mean she was interested. A small piece in the galaxy size game that she was playing. 

Was he brought in by the romance of it? A group of farmers (with some help) against the mighty Stel Kesh? Maybe a little. But mostly it was just a very unfair situation and he wanted better for these people. He thought he could help them. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of his parents. He just didn't see how far it was going to go. How far he was prepared to go. 

\--

“Another drink, sir?”

He grabbed another wine from the tray in front of him.

He couldn’t quite believe he was back in the Winter Palace Ballroom, or that Clem had ordered them along to this event, but he wasn’t complaining. 

He was indulging in one of his favourite activities: people watching. He loved to watch occasions like this. Who was circling around with who, who was holding court, who looked like they were out of favour and who was hanging around the edges, like himself. Every so often someone would whisper to someone else while looking his way. _The Farmer. It’s really him_. He was tempted to give them a little wave. He took another sip of his wine instead. He’d gotten a taste for it years ago, and it was good. But then of course it was. Nothing but the best at this kind of party. 

Millie and Leap were by the drinks table, looking like they couldn’t quite believe where the hell they were but enjoying the free food and drink; Crysanth was holding court; and Clem was circling. Looking like she was making the rounds, but he could see that she was bored. He’d met her a few times when she was very small. She was a serious toddler - trying to be the best little Kesh daughter she could be - with the boatloads of Kesh privilege that came along with it, and a definite sideline in bossing around the servants. The more things stayed the same. 

\--

Dahlia hadn’t been scared, when he’d taken them with the help of some sympathetic domestic staff. In fact they’d been remarkably calm - almost freakishly so - as he’d lead them away to the agreed meeting spot. They’d quietly played with a small mech toy in the back of the ship. 

The farmhouse had been quiet. Idyllic, even. The farmers had been generous and welcomed his help. They hadn’t been overawed by him; they just knew he had inside information and connections and he wanted to make a change. That he saw the injustice. He did, of course, but he also brought them attention, and ultimately, disaster. 

He hadn’t been surprised when they’d charged the farmhouse in the middle of the night. But he’d been a little surprised when he saw they were Apostalos soldiers and not the Kesh ones he had been expecting. Someone had outplayed her. 

The Apostolisians hadn’t handed him over but had left him in an easy place for Kesh to find. They’d gotten what they came for. 

And then Kesh had thrown him in jail. The best deal the Crook could have possibly bargained for him. The meeting with the Abbot hadn’t been pleasant, but certain formalities and precedents had to be upheld and one of those was the immunity of their order. 

But the true farmers of the farmer’s rebellion? Well. The planet was wiped from all official records, and Kesh had traditions for everything - including how to deal with sedition. 

\--

Standing on the bridge of Fort Icebreaker he had to collect himself.

A spider prophet, a gas alien, a smuggler, a pirate, a clone soldier, two members of the Kesh nobility and a bunch of others capture an Apostolisian fortress to fuck over Stel Kesh and do whatever else they want and maybe even help some people along the way. It was certainly a situation. 

He tamped down the feelings of what the fuck had they done? What was their plan? People had started to look to him with expressions of, “Well you’ve done this before.” Not like this he hadn’t! A whole different ruleset was in play here. But he guessed some revolutionary experience was better than none at all. (Or was it?)

He took a few calm breaths as he saw Valence’s masked face entering the bridge.

He could do this. He could help them. If they’d listen. 

\-- 

He was kept in relative comfort, for a prison. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, the room kept at a steady temperature and he was allowed all the (approved) reading material he wanted. 

The Warden met with him once a month. The first Warden had been a short, officious man who was obsessed with his own self-image. The second Warden was still a Kesh man through and through, but he was far more pleasant to deal with and over the years they’d come to an understanding, if not a friendship. They both liked good food (no beer or wine allowed in the prison, sadly) and enjoyed a game of chess. 

He mixed with the other prisoners occasionally. For obvious reasons the prison generally liked to keep him fairly separate if they could, but rumours spread like wildfire and of course people found out who was kept in the special room of Cell Block G. 

But not everyone was impressed by his reputation. Case in point: a young prisoner from Orion territory named A.O Rooke.

“I don’t give a shit about all that Kesh bullshit.” 

“You’re aware you’re in a Kesh prison right now?”

“All the more reason to not give a shit, if you ask me.”

They didn’t talk often, but when they did run into each other, he was impressed. Rooke was tough, curious and didn’t like bullies. He couldn’t help but see his younger self. But he wouldn’t wish that fate on Rooke. 

\--

He’d attended the Summer Passage of Arms as Crysanth’s Sovereign a couple of times, but he never thought he’d be competing, especially in his 74th year. 

He remembered hearing that Dahlia had attended one year and won all six events. A Six-Fold Champion. He wondered if they would even recognise him. The closest he’d come to meeting them was seeing Cas’aelear, and there wasn’t really time to ask after them, and what would he even say? 

The training for the event had been a good way to get out of his head. To concentrate on running the laps around the decks, and lifting the barbell from his chest into the air and back again. Up. Down. Up Down. Sweat pooling on his forehead. Running down the back of his neck. It was therapeutic. And reminded him of training in the monastery. And also the prison. He needed something familiar to concentrate on after all that had happened. 

As he hand-over-hand climbed through the Divine Providence, he felt alive, and there was something very metaphorical about conquering an old Divine as part of the revolutionary organisation. But then this whole exercise had been at least partially meant as a PR exercise. Metaphor mattered. 

Rooke beat him in the end but not by much. He hadn’t disgraced himself, even if the mask had prevented people in the crowd from discovering that it was The Farmer from all those years ago who had been competing and showing up the best and brightest athletes of the Principality. 

They threw a celebration when they got back to Fort Icebreaker. There was dancing, and beer and even Broun looked like they were enjoying themselves. People clapped him warmly on the back and congratulated him on a well-run race. 

And at the end there was a Princept in their brig. No farm this time. Slightly more friends. Still pissing off Stel Kesh. Just the way he liked it. 

Looking back: this was one of the best moments. 

\--

A few years into his internment, he received a book delivery.

It was fiction. A famous Kesh story of betrayal. 

Inside there was only a good-quality white card with a stylised C. 

He knew who it was from. She didn’t need to sign her name. He was surprised he’d even crossed her mind. But then, she never forgot. And never forgave. 

\--

Days after he and Thisbe returned from the funeral he couldn’t stop thinking about the broken smile that Crysanth and he had shared, and the flash of light that had been Valence’s last moments. He wasn’t dealing with either very well. Broun still wasn’t talking to him, which was fine, because he really didn't know what to say to them. He knew it wasn’t his fault - Valence had made their own choices - but ultimately he felt a little responsible. He hadn’t been there to help. If he had, maybe things would have been different and Valence would still be in Oxbridge being the voice of reason they desperately needed. Instead people were looking to him, and he didn’t feel equipped for their expectations. He felt their weight on him as he walked. 

When he was invited onto the Reflecting Pool and heard about the Red Light, he thought he started to understand why Crysanth had smiled. They weren’t prepared for what was coming. They had no idea. They’d made some changes, they’d helped some people, but there was still a much bigger game at play here. He started to drink more. 

And then there was Clem. Returned from the dead to enter their lives once more. Once upon a time he had wanted to be her Sovereign Immunity, but now the title didn’t fit. He felt discomfort between his shoulder blades every time someone used it. 

Not Lawrence. Not Byron. Not Sovereign Immunity. But what now? What next? 

Looking out over the sea by Oxbridge, he felt afraid.


End file.
